


and so the world turns.

by oharlem



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Gen, No happy endings, Phil Coulson is dead, Post-Battle, Post-Movie(s), Rain, Realistic approach to after the battle in Manhattan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:23:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oharlem/pseuds/oharlem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was raining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and so the world turns.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago when I was having a poetic/ angst-y day. Finally, I've decided to post it. Have I mentioned angst?
> 
> -Misfit

The world after Manhattan, after superheroes and aliens and chaos, is grey. They are not a team After any more than they were Before-- they are not a family and they are not smiling.

Thor returned to Asgard with Loki, cold like a marble settled in his chest. He knew the punishment to come. There would not be welcoming or celebration or laughter at the return of his brother; there would be Imprisonment and Fury and Exile. Thor knew this, _Loki_ knew this --they accepted it and stared grimly into the light. Silence like a deafening roar enveloped them and, with stony expressions, they stepped forward to meet their fate. 

It was raining.

Clint and Natasha drove off together, not into the sunset, but to an unassuming building in Queens-- the sign in the front had words painted such as Funeral and Home in juxtaposition. They chose a simple casket made of dull granite and a slick, black headstone. There was no procession, no hearse or priest as they drove to a cemetery behind an old, abandoned factory. Together they laid the body of their closest friend and confidante to rest. Together they gathered white lilies, Phil's favourite, and set them by the freshly turned soil. Together they called a cellist in Portland and, together, they listened to her sobs. Their world was crashing down around their shoulders, but still they stood as silent and as strong as the stone before them. " _To a friend and a force of nature: May you have the peace in Death you lacked in Life. Phillip Coulson. 1960-2012_."

It was raining.

From the airport's small cafe and the windowshield of a Corvette, Bruce and Tony raged silently. Bruce was conditioned to run away and Tony was conditioned not to care. So, one was left outside JFK with a one-way ticket to Mumbai, and the other drove off with the stereos blasting. Manhattan was in ruins and the remnants of Stark tower stood lonely and barren along the horizon, a broken god fallen to shambles in a mortal world. Battered and bruised, Tony took each bottle of whiskey and wine, each flask of gin and scotch and sent them crashing into walls, a symphony of jagged edges resonating like a stutterd pulse through his veins. Bruce imagined the smell of burning alcohol and smoked metal from thousands of miles in the air, and, trapped in a cage smaller than any other in the world, he beat against the bars of his mind with discordanant rythym. 

Both hollow,

both cold,

both alone--

it was raining. 

Brooklyn was bustling, full of noise and laughter and unfamiliar shouts, full of lights and colour and pain. Steve stood in the middle of it all, overwhelmed by the buildings, shocked by the people streaming around him. Seventy years, Steve knew, was a long time to sleep-- so much can change in seventy years, because not even time waited for the golden boy, the super soldier, the scrawny Little Guy with asthma and a perpetual smile. He collapsed against the side of a bank, a bank where there once was a ballroom full of sweet futures and warbled promises, and breathed in. Smoke and gasoline and metallic tang had replaced hot dogs and heated clay and fresh air. In his hand, Steve held a photograph, the faded ink running together with the sky, far away.

'I had a date,'

he whispered.

And

it was raining. 

The clouds opened up and poured their purified tears across the heavens. The sky was crying for the six who would not, the six who could not, and the six who would never let themselves be weak. Rain pounded on gods' backs and fresh graves, it pierced through drunken rage and silent agony, and it stung the skin of a man out of time. The world after Manhattan, after superheroes and aliens and chaos, is grey. They are not a team After any more than they were Before--

they are not a family

and they are

not

smiling.

 


End file.
